


Are You Happy Now?

by a_nonny_moose



Series: My AU [83]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 14:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Given all the attention that Bing's been given lately, this was inevitable... and no one is happy.





	Are You Happy Now?

“What… what is that noise?”

Bim, arm-deep in dirty dishes, turned. “What noise?”

Google_B looked up from playing cards as Oliver turned, setting his hand down. His eyes flashed. “That.”

From down the hall, there was a faint scraping, harsh metal on metal. As Oliver stood, it grew louder. Closer.

Google_B said, “Oliver, open the door,” at the same time that Bim said, “Oliver, do _not_ open that door.”

Oliver hesitated, and Bim glared, turning off the water and turning to face them. “You don’t know what that thing is.”

The scraping was louder, heavy clunks, like something dragging itself down the hall. 

“The best way to find out is to check,” Google_B shot back, standing. “It could be a threat.”

“Exactly why you shouldn’t open the door.”

“It could go after someone else.”

“Let it.”

Creaking, like so many breaking limbs.

Google_B paused, at a loss. “Bim—”

“Oh.” 

Google_B and Bim whipped around, torn from their argument by the sound of Oliver opening the door.

Oliver stepped back, just short of scrambling out of the way. 

An inch at a time, something dragged itself through the door, from carpet onto the tile of the kitchen floor. First his arms, straining, metal poking through the skin at impossible angles. His face, still twisted into a terrible smile.

Bim found his voice first, terror fighting joy. “…Bing?”

Bing, or what was left of him, looked up. Static, broken eyes. “S-s-suh, du-u-ude.”

Bim took a step forward, hopeful, hesitant. Google_B reached out, eyes flashing, to hold him back.

“Blue, I—”

“No.” Gritted teeth, and even Oliver took a step back. Google_B glared down at Bing, leaking oil all over the tile. “Get Dark.”

“But—”

“Trimmer.” Google_B barely turned, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Get. Dark.”

Bim gave Bing one last look, lingering, before he nodded, and disappeared in a flash of purple light. 

“Oliver?”

Oliver beeped, nodding.

“You know what to do.”

Oliver gathered Bing up, wire by wire by broken joint, and slung Bing over his shoulder. Google_B helped, none-too gentle, gathering the bits and pieces of Bing scattered down the hallway, oil-stained carpet leaving a trail that stretched to the basement door. It was something out of a horror movie, but the monster wasn’t a monster, or ghost, or some kind of _freak_ —it was just Bing. 

Wasn’t it?

Once Oliver had carted Bing away to their room, fingers already twitching for his torch, Google_B stepped back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. A moment of reprieve, if nothing more. It was a lie to say he wasn’t expecting it, after all, what with the calendar and Bing’s near-cult following. It didn’t mean he was prepared. 

A whirl of black smoke, and the moment was over as soon as it had begun. “Dark.”

“Google.” Dark’s scowl twisted upwards, glaring at the puddle of oil on the floor. 

“Bing is—”

“I can tell.” Dark stepped closer, shined shoes avoiding the oil with disdain. “Are you happy now, Blue?”

“I—” Google_B stiffened, and his eyes flicked down, then back up, harder than before. “We are going to repair him.”

“What do you expect?” Dark growled, baring his teeth. “My blessing?”

“I am certainly not asking your permission,” Google_B snapped. “I do not know what you did with him, but given—”

“Yes, given the…calendars, there’s no doubt it’s back for quite a while,” Dark muttered, rolling his eyes. “I need to speak with Wilford, but for now, go ahead. Fix it.”

With that, Dark disappeared again, leaving Google_B with oil seeping into his socks and more misgivings than before. 

* * *

Oliver pushed up his welding mask, eyes bright. “Finished.”

Google_B looked over, feeling himself running low on charge. It was midnight, but they had nearly finished repairs, and it wasn’t as if Google_G would sleep until Bing was up and running. 

Google_R reached over to plug Bing into his computer, final diagnostics. Google-brand charging ports weren’t made for Bing, after all, and it took a fair bit of work to import his software to theirs. “I will be done soon.”

Google_G nodded, not looking up from where he was scrubbing through lines upon lines of code, trying to fix Bing’s bugs before they appeared, and growing more and more frustrated. “Blue?”

Google_B beeped in response, busying himself. 

“Will you confirm something for me?”

Google_B rose and shuffled over to Google_G’s computer, lit with what seemed to be the entirety of Bing’s coding. He watched as Google_G flipped through the lines, mumbling to himself. “What is it?”

Google_G pointed, two lines in the status bar onscreen. 

**SCAN 100% COMPLETE  
NO ERRORS FOUND**

“That—”

“It is impossible,” Google_G said, clicking a few lines down. “This was irreparable and corrupted, last we saw him.”

“Are you _certain_ —”

“I have been manually confirming.”

Google_B stepped back, glancing at Bing’s still body, then the computer screen. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“The fans have power,” Oliver murmured, and both Google_G and _B looked up, off-guard. “Magic,” he sneered, “and influence.”

“I am glad,” Google_G whispered, looking back down. 

At that moment, there was a loud click. All four Googles turned, Oliver scowling as Bing’s startup sound, whirring, filled the room. 

Bing’s eyes flickered to life, orange, then a teal blue. His joints, squeaking from months without oil, protested as he sat up, slow. He looked around at them all: a little worse for the wear, a little creaky, but nonetheless, alive. 

Google_G stood, stepping forward. He was the first, of course, the champion of Bing’s lost cause. “Bing?”

Bing stared for a moment, blank, and Google_R moved forward. Bing had been dangerous, once, and maybe again.

Before Google_R could do so much as step forward, Bing’s fingers found the edge of the table, and he slipped off, feet solidly on the floor. Google_G reached forward, hopeful, and Bing smiled.

“Google, how ya doin’, bro?”

Google_G threw his arms around Bing, an approximation of a hug, as Google_R relaxed. He and Oliver met each other’s eyes, a slow smile, a brief comfort. They had another one. Annoying, or subordinate, they had another one.

Bing laughed, a little too loudly, and there was emotion in it. “Nice to see you, too, guys.”

Google_B hung back, silent, his arms crossed over his chest. With Bing came every misgiving, back in full. _Default. Inferior. Emotional, unsubtle, unpredictable mistake—_

Over Google_R’s shoulder, Bing caught Google_B’s eye. 

Google_B nodded, uncomfortable, and Bing winked. 

* * *

“Bing, will you hold this in place?”

Bing pressed the two pieces together as Oliver welded them into place, hidden behind a welding mask. Bing flinched, slightly, as sparks landed on his hands. After a moment, he pulled away. 

“Is something the matter?” Oliver, still muffled, flicked off his welding torch irritably. 

“Do you have, like, any gloves?” Bing rubbed at his hand, synthetic skin not as vulnerable, it seemed, as the Googles’, but singed nonetheless. 

“No.” Oliver pulled the two pieces of metal together himself, ignoring Bing, and started to weld again.

Bing sighed, running a hand through his hair. All of the Googles were busy with their own projects. Despite the hasty workstation that they’d assembled in the corner for him, Bing was having a hard enough time settling in without Oliver’s dismissal.

“Anyone else need a little assistance?” Bing beamed, hopping up behind Google_R as he rewired a circuit board. 

“Not now.” The response was quick, and blunt, and left no room for discussion. 

Bing backed away, then turned to the next Google. “Green?”

As enthusiastic as Google_G had been to bring Bing back from the dead, he was less enthusiastic to spend time with him. Between Bing’s loud, near-obnoxious confidence and disregard for anyone else’s work, it was grating, at the least, to spend time entertaining him. 

“Busy,” Google_G muttered, betraying nothing and everything in a single word. Bing looked away, searching for Google_B, but didn’t even form the words. 

“I am sure Wilford could use your… assistance,” Google_B said, without looking up. 

With a directive from everyone that seemed to point out of the room, Bing swallowed what little pride he kept, curled close to his chest. “Suh, dudes, see you later.”

None of them responded, only the sound of Oliver welding, the others clicking and typing. It was a gentle silence, one that Bing was entirely unwelcome in. They were all Googles, after all, and he was just _default_.

Bing ducked out of the Googles’ room—and his room, come to think of it—and into the hallway. A week or so of living here had done him a little good, and he headed in the direction of what he thought was Wilford’s and Bim’s studio. 

The hallway itself seemed to have history, and what impact Bing had on it was quickly covered up. There were dents in the wall, holes in the shape of knife blades, even bits of auras and magic staining the paint. The carpet, despite the lingering smell of his own oil, was nearly clean. 

He meant little, here, in the grand scheme of things. 

But he was happy now, wasn’t he?

* * *

Google_R looked up the moment that Bing left, beeping irritably. “Green, your pet project has—”

“Gotten out of hand.” Google_G pushed back from his workstation, chest whirring in a sigh. “I realize.”

“What do you mean to do about it?” Oliver looked up, pausing his work to snap at the other two. “Bing is a liability, at best.”

“He stays.” Google_B stood, leaning on his desk. The other three turned to look at him, scowling. “Bing is one of us.”

“’One of us’?” Google_R leaned back, eyes flashing. “He is made in an entirely different design, need I remind you how long it took to reconfigure his software—”

“Blue means that he is a figment,” Google_G muttered, arms crossed. “And despite—despite the scale of my project, it cannot be helped.”

“Secrecy,” Google_R scoffed. “And security. It means little if Bing manages to destroy us from the inside out.”

“I will deactivate him myself.” Oliver’s eyes flashed behind his welding mask, dangerous yellow. “You know that I will.”

“I know,” Google_B snapped, interrupting. Google_R and Oliver fell silent, looking over at him. “I know,” he repeated, quieter. “But he stays.”

Google_G looked at him, hopeful, even as Google_R and Oliver shook their heads. “Bing is not that bad, Blue.”

Google_B turned away, sitting back down. “It does not matter, now, does it?”

“No, it does not,” Google_G snapped, frustration leaking through his speakers. “It does not matter, and you have already made your decision. Are you happy?”

Google_B didn’t respond, his headphones snapped back over his ears, and Google_G was left feeling as though he was fighting a losing battle. 

* * *

Bing opened what he thought was the studio door and immediately backpedaled, the smell of blood and ink hitting him like a wall. 

“Is someone there?” There was the distinct sound of a bat being picked up, and shuffling footsteps. Murmured words, echoing from the near-darkness inside.

“H-hello?” Bing had a hand on the door to close it, more than a little afraid. “It’s me, Bing.”

“Ah.” The steps stopped, faint candlelight flickering. “Is there something Bing needs from the Host?”

“I was looking for—” Bing paused, the Host coming into view. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hello.” The Host paused, bat clenched in his hand.

“I was wondering if you needed any help,” Bing managed, rubbing the back of his neck. He was still an outsider, and painfully aware of it, despite having met all of the other figments at least once.

The Host hesitated, drumming his fingers on the bat. “You have eyes,” he finally grudged.

“I—I do.” Bing managed a grin, his eyes flashing blue.

“Come, then.” The Host stalked back into his room, and Bing followed, looking around. It was a maze, made out of half-filled bookshelves and littered stacks of paper. Upon closer inspection, the books on the shelves were charred, the pages on the floor blank. It was a library, built by someone with only the vaguest idea of what a library looked like. 

“Here.” The Host, ahead of him, stopped in front of a desk lit by a handful of candles, more for appearance than light, and covered in decades-old recording equipment. “If Bing would sit,” he said, gesturing to a shadowed chair.

Bing sat, whirring, confused into a rare silence. 

The Host handed him a book, slim, with a bookmark stuck halfway through. Bing waited as the Host sat at his desk, feeding a paper into his typewriter. It didn’t have a keyboard, but raised dots on a handful of keys. 

“What do you want me to do?”

The Host turned, slowly, and Bing jumped a little. “Read.”

Bing cracked open the book, the bookmark marking the line where the previous reader had left off. As he read, the Host began to type. “Uh… ‘No account whatsoev—whatever had been taken of her relation to treasures—’ sorry, ‘to _her_ treasures, of the passion—'”

The Host stopped, his typewriter silent. “No.”

Bing looked up, squinting in the low light. “No?”

The Host ripped the paper out of his typewriter. “Start over.”

“Um.” Bing looked back down at the page, trying to find his place. “Reading out loud isn’t really my thing, Hosty.”

“What kind of android can’t _read_?” The Host muttered, mostly to himself. “Bing,” he started again. “Just read what is on the page.”

“In all fairness,” Bing said, flipping forward and back a few pages, “this is terribly written and _technically_ , it should be ‘whatsoever.’”

“Bing—”

“And how am I supposed to read from the middle?” Bing dropped the book on the floor in his gesturing, only half-joking. “Oops.” He bent to pick it up, flipping through again. “I think I lost my place, we should read it from the beginning. That’d be fun, right?”

Bing looked up to find the Host leaning down, a scant foot away from him, looking thoroughly annoyed. 

“Uh. Hosty?”

“I am _the_ _Host_ ,” the Host growled, and Bing noticed far too late that the Host’s bat was in his hand again. “And you, Bing, find yourself to be thoroughly unwelcome here.”

Bing shuddered, scrambling up. “I’ll go, if you want, my dude.”

“The Host would like that—” the thud of his bat in his palm, “— _very much_.”

Bing skittered from the room without a backwards look. The maze of shelves was easy enough to navigate, for all that the Googles had warned him not to get lost inside. 

The door slammed behind him, not a gust of wind, but the Host inches from his back. 

Back in the hallway, again, and alone. Bing leaned against the wall, and he tipped his head back, and he laughed. The Host was never the most agreeable of figments, and it was a hilarious enough adventure as it was. 

Never mind that the Host never really wanted him around. Never mind that no one seemed to.

No, Bing was happy now.

* * *

Bing laughed until his chest whirred, a gentle purr of fans compared to the Googles’, and he caught his breath. 

“Bing? That you?”

Bing turned, about to invent an excuse, to see Dr. Iplier coming down the hallway. “Heya, Doc.”

“I’ll never be used to that,” Dr. Iplier chuckled, stopping next to Bing. 

“Used to what?” Bing grinned. The Doctor was one of his favorite people—one of the only people that didn’t brush him off. 

“You, robot,” Dr. Iplier joked, taking a sip of his coffee, “speaking in contractions.”

“The Googs are no fun,” Bing said, laughing, not noticing the way Dr. Iplier flinched at the noise. “Besides, I’m different, right?”

“Very,” Dr. Iplier muttered, burying himself again in his cup, not quite meeting Bing’s eye. “How are you, then?”

“Just wondering if anyone could use my services,” Bing said, sweeping an imaginary hat off his head. “Anything I can help with, Doc?”

“Ah—well, see…” Dr. Iplier fidgeted for a moment. “I was going to see Host, and we normally talk alone. Not that I don’t want you to come, I just—”

“No worries,” Bing muttered, feeling, despite himself, a dark cloud start to slide over his manufactured good mood. “Hosty and I don’t see eye to—er—”

“Right.” Dr. Iplier stood there for another awkward moment before patting Bing tentatively on the arm. “I’ll see you soon, though, Bing.”

“Yeah!” Bing grabbed, fast, at Dr. Iplier’s hand. “Do you want me to bring you coffee later?”

“Well, that’s sweet of you—” Dr. Iplier fumbled through another excuse, snatching his hand back, and Bing hardly noticed the way he tried to shuffle towards the Host’s door. “—it’s just, I’m so busy today—”

The Host’s door opened. “Doctor.”

“Host, uh—right, well, I’ll see you, Bing.” Dr. Iplier ducked through the open door, and it shut quickly behind them. From the other side of the door came hushed, muffled whispers, and Bing headed in the other direction, to what he’d figured was the studio. 

There were shadows and secrets lining the halls of the office, and even Dr. Iplier’s smile gave way, too often, to bitter whispers. Bing thought little of it: of course, the Doc was busy. They were still friends, _of course_ , he spoke so _kindly_. 

Of course, Bing was happy now.

* * *

Bing was sure that this was the studio, on account of the raised voices he could hear inside, but more so on account of the pink glitter bleeding under the door. 

“Dark, I don’t give an _ass_ about security, you know what?”

“What, you want to risk every bit of secrecy we’ve—”

“Like that Abe guy said, a house divided can’t stand, and as sure as Bing is eavesdropping, I’m not standing!”

Bing jumped as the door to the studio was thrown open, banging against the wall. 

“Bing.” Dark smoothed his suit, leering, ringed in black smoke. “Do come in.”

“I was just, uh, lookin’ for Wilford?” Bing started to back away, a little daunted. “I can—I can _go_ —”

“Do. Come. In.” Dark smiled, poisonous, and Bing slipped inside the studio. 

“Bing!” Wilford grinned from his seat, and Bing, somewhere, found comfort in not being the only delusional optimist in the room. 

“Uh, ‘sup?”

Dark was behind Bing, again, sudden. “We were just talking. What was it you wanted, Bing?”

Bing realized the moment the words left his mouth that it was an awful excuse. “I was coming to see if Will needed any—any help, but you must be busy.” Dark’s aura was ringing violently in his ears, harsh against his circuits, and Bing wished he were literally anywhere else. 

“Well,” Dark chuckled, and a shiver ran down Bing’s spine, “we could certainly use—”

“Why don’t you see Bim?” Wilford looked at Dark with the air of someone that had just made an earthshattering realization. “Dark and I need to talk a bit. Alone.”

“Uh-huh.” Bing saw his opportunity, like a lifeline. “I’ll see you later, then? If you want, I have this cool recipe—”

Dark shot Wilford a look, clearing his throat. His aura reached out, near-solid, to push at Bing’s arm, and he decided to cut his losses. “A’right. See ya.”

Bing scuttled to the dressing rooms, looking for Bim, and Wilford and Dark breathed. “What?” Dark snapped, sitting back down across from Wilford.

“I just realized something.”

“Obviously.”

“Mm.”

Dark raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to tell me what it is?”

Wilford shook his head, lost in thought. “I think we need to keep an eye on Bim.”

“Why?”

“A hunch.”

Dark barked a laugh, but didn’t respond. The two of them sat in silence for a moment.

The studio was growing dark, Wiford’s knife glinting in his hand as it flipped back and forth. There was a feeling in the air, like déjà vu from a different perspective. 

* * *

Bing hurried back, knocking on Bim’s dressing room door. “Bim?”

“Hello?” Bim threw the door open, a script in his hand and his hair mussed. A moment, and his eyes lit up. “Bing, hi!”

“Hi.” Bing shuffled a little, suddenly conscious. Did Bim really want him in here? Or by asking, was he obligating Bim to say yes? “Can I come in?”

“Dude!” Bim had caught on to Bing’s language a lot faster than the others, and thought it was hilarious. “Of course!” He stepped back to let Bing in, grinning. “What can I do for you?”

“Dude,” Bing said, finding a spot to flop down amid the props and discarded paper, “I don’t know where to start.”

“Something up?” Bim perched on his stool, making a note on his script.

“Do you have a bit?”

Bim looked up, something like guilt flickering across his face. “I mean, I have to memorize this by morning, and—” 

Bing folded into himself a little more, but didn’t show an ounce of it. He laughed, leaning against the couch. “No problem, my dude. I’ll check back later, then?”

“I mean—” Bim watched as Bing gathered himself up, starting for the door. Bim’s aura, spilled purple all over the room, brushed by him. _This one is different_. “I can make time, Bing. What’s up?”

Bing stopped with his hand on the doorknob, and Bim could feel the relief jettisoning off of him. “Well, if you really do have a bit to talk…” He stepped back in, taking his place on the couch. 

Bim set down his script, inwardly sighing. Bing was an exhausting person to be around, but here they were, for better or worse. “Is it Dark?”

Bing put his head in his hands, suddenly looking every bit the soft surfer dude that he—and Mark—tried to be. 

“Bing?”

“It’s not just Dark,” Bing muttered, muffled. “It’s Will, and Doc, and everyone else.”

Bim shifted uncomfortably, seeing very clearly where this was going. “What do you mean?”

“Just, like…” Bing looked up, and his eyes flickered. “Am I really that insufferable?”

“You’re not—”

“Bim.” Bing stopped him, looking down. “Please do not insult my intelligence. I see, based on your body language and tone of voice, what I mean to you.”

Bim was silent for a moment. The Googles had been able to pick up on his reservation, but not this quickly. “But, Bing—”

“Allow me to finish.” Bing’s voice was suddenly curt, monotone, every bit and byte the Googles’ equal. Bim went silent, and Bing nodded, still addressing himself to the floor. “I see that my demeanor isn’t—is not welcome here.” He looked up, and there was a flash of something very close to pain in his face. “I can’t help it.”

“I mean—” Bim fumbled again, reaching for words of comfort. “If you feel like that, you can always change—”

“I can’t.” Bing stared into space, lost, in more than one sense of the word. “It’s how I’m made.”

Bim stopped, seeing something familiar. Figment against fate. “Your coding?”

“My character.”

“Character isn’t everything.”

“Isn’t it?” Bing laughed, leaning back, sprawling on the couch. “Look at Dark, look at Host.”

“Look at me.” Bim stepped off his stool, suddenly serious. “Eleven seconds of screen time in the past three years.”

“You’re different.” Bing avoided his eye. “You have magic. I have code, or, whatever.”

“Magic can help you, if you wanted.”

Bing stopped, squinting. “What do you mean?”

Bim took a deep breath. “You’re not entirely without magic, Bing, and if you wanted to change your… character, i guess, to make yourself more ‘sufferable,’ I could help.”

“It wouldn’t work.” Bing looked as if he was holding himself back, hope against hope. 

“It sounds dumb,” Bim said, settling on the couch next to Bing, “but if you let it in, if you let _me_ in, I can change things.”

“No one can change things,” Bing muttered, but the cynicism didn’t entirely hide the light in his eyes.

“If a writer decided to write me as a—a cannibal, of all things,” Bim said, twisting his hands, “it would have… influence. That’s magic, and it’s _already_ changed things.”

Bing turned it over in his head, eyes narrowing. It made sense, in an illogical, magical sort of way.

Bim laughed, seeing Bing’s face crease the same way that the Googles’ did when Wilford used magic to clean and his hands to tie his shoes. “Go on, then,” he said, reaching a hand out to Bing. Somewhere, in the back of Bim’s mind, something larger than him reared its head. 

Bing didn’t notice. He hesitated for all of a moment before he reached out to meet Bim halfway.

There was a spark, purple and teal, and Bim felt his own magic jerk behind his ribs. It flowed out of him, around Bing. A single gap in Bing’s shell, a blind hope that the Googles just _didn’t have_ , and the magic found its way in.

Bing leaned in first, Bim’s hand guiding his cheek, the aura guiding his lips. It was only a brief kiss, storm clouds brushing the ground.

“Bing?” Bim drew back, still feeling his aura swirl around him in dizzying circles, a whirlpool of fear and dreams. 

Bing gasped, like a drowning man coming up for air. “That’s—that’s _magic?_ ”

“It—yeah, are you… okay?”

Bing stared down at his hands, then back up at Bim. “Yeah.” His voice was suddenly quieter, as if he was conscious of every word. “Yeah, I—wow.”

Bim scooted back imperceptibly as Bing got up. He didn’t hop to his feet, or bounce, but moved deliberately. Something had shifted—it was more intense than Bing, reigned in by nerves alone. He held himself close, as if trying not to take up space.

“Hey, thanks, bro,” Bing murmured, and Bim stood, almost afraid. For all Bing’s purposive movement, he looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“No problem, but are you sure you’re… okay?” Bim looked Bing over, concerned. It was as if he carried something, eyes flickering faster. 

“I’m all right,” Bing said, his hands starting to twitch. “I need to—I’m going to go.”

With that, he crossed the room and was out the door, soundless, leaving Bim just short of satisfied. 

* * *

Bing passed Dark and Wilford on the way out. The two of them were flicking smoke at each other, talking in low voices. 

“Hey, Bing,” Wilford said, perking up. Dark’s bit of smoke hit him in the face, and Wilford huffed before looking back over at Bing, collecting himself halfway to the door. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Yeah, of course,” Bing said, too quickly. 

Dark raised an eyebrow, but Wilford plowed forward. “Take this to Host, would you?” He held out a book, the edges tattered and smeared with what looked like a mix of food and glitter. 

Bing drew back, eyes flickering. “Looking like _that_? Will—” 

“What?” Wilford snapped, interrupting, uncharacteristically harsh. His eyes narrowed, cruel. “You _won’t_ do this for me?”

Bing stopped, stuttering, the emotional equivalent of a reboot. “I—sure, Will.” He took the book with eyes downcast, shoulders drawn in, and left without a word.

“What was _that_?” Dark spat, staring after Bing.

Wilford shrugged, flicking at his nails with the edge of his knife. “Testing a theory.” 

“What theory?” 

Wilford shook his head, lost in thought again, and Dark sighed. “Right.” He pushed himself up, nodding, and walked towards the door. 

“Dark?”

“Yes?” Dark paused, just stopping himself from rolling her eyes. “What is it?”

“I meant what I said,” Will muttered, flipping his knife in his hand. “We need to check up on Bim. Tonight.”

“Correction,” Dark bit out, straightening his cufflinks. “ _You_ need to check up on Bim.”

“Humor me.”

“I never have.”

“I know.” Wilford stood, and Dark glanced at him. Wilford looked as if he was reliving something, vivid technicolor taking him far away from the present. “That’s why it’s important.”

“Poetic,” Dark snorted, opening the door. “Fine. Happy now?” 

When he looked back, Wilford was gone. 

* * *

Bing stopped, once he was in the hallway. Alone, for a moment, with whatever it was that Bim had given him. 

It was bigger than he was, like a balloon bursting in his chest, like the feeling of landing a perfect flip, like seeing and hearing everything at once. It stopped the running monologue in his head: in its place was attentiveness, harsh and echoing. Bing breathed, and his chest was tight, fans pounding away.

Dark and Wilford were authorities, of course, but Bing had never had a reason to be nervous around them. He’d breezed past them, laughing, sometimes even poking fun.

But now, whatever fear that Bing had had for Dark’s ringing aura and Wilford’s flipping knives was amplified. Wilford’s glare had pulled him tight, a string about to snap, and it had been all that Bing could do not to run right then and there. 

He turned the book over in his hand. It was, objectively, disgusting. The title was nearly worn through, and Bing ran a finger over it. _Have His—_ well, that wasn’t how ‘carcass’ was spelled, anyway. 

Bing’s thoughts felt as if they’d been flanderized, and yet, at the root of it all, he was still holding his breath. 

_They’ll like you now. Are you happy?_

Bing started for the Host’s room with a smile on his face—not wide, and not a grin, but a gentle thing that just touched his lips. He was so happy.

* * *

He stopped outside the Host’s room, a weight in his stomach. The Host would be angry, or else Dr. Iplier wouldn’t want to be interrupted, or—or—or—

The door opened, and Bing jumped back a little. “Hello?”

“Bing.” Dr. Iplier opened the door a little wider, hesitant. “Host said you’d be here.”

“He—he did?”

Dr. Iplier raised an eyebrow at Bing’s stutter, but glossed over it. “Yeah. Come on in, then.”

Bing slipped into the room for the second time that day. The shadows seemed darker, twitching, like so many eyes on the back of his neck. Whispers, silver tongues, followed him as he and the Doctor made their way to the Host’s desk. 

“Host,” Dr. Iplier said, dropping into a chair. He picked up the book he’d been reading, the same one that Bing had dropped. The bookmark was moved a few pages forward, and Dr. Iplier thumbed over the edge. 

“Doctor.” The Host half-turned, fiddling with wires and microphones. “Bing.”

“Uh. Host.” Bing clutched his own book in his hand. Androids couldn’t break out into cold sweat, but he was close. “Hi.”

“What does Bing have?” 

Dr. Iplier looked around, looking at Bing. “What do you have?”

“Uh.” Bing held up the book, hesitating. “Wilford asked me to bring this to you.”

Dr. Iplier reached for it, leaning forward. “What the—what did you _do_ to it?”

Bing squeezed his eyes shut, stiffening. “I-know-it-looks-bad-it-wasn’t-me-I’m-sorry—”

Dr. Iplier stood, eyes narrowed, and the Host finally turned around. “Doctor,” he said, softly, and Dr. Iplier stopped. 

“It’s a _mess_ , I’ll talk to Wilford myself—”

“No, wait.” The Host stood, turning towards Bing. Neither the Doctor nor the Host seemed to notice Bing shrinking in on himself, starting to back away. “Bing.”

“Mm-hm?” Bing beeped faintly, still looking very much as if he was about to run.

“It is alright.” The Host took the book from Dr. Iplier, and a shadow crossed his face as his fingers ran over the cover. “The Host thanks Bing, and asks him to leave.”

Bing flinched, but nodded, and turned to leave. 

Dr. Iplier watched him go, silent, and sagged into his chair. “I’ve never known you to have so much mercy, Host.”

The Host shook his head, ignoring Dr. Iplier’s chuckle. “It isn’t mercy.”

“Then what is it?” Dr. Iplier tilted his head back, silent in the flickering light.

“Insurance.” The Host settled himself at his desk again, sighing, and poised his fingers over the keyboard. 

Dr. Iplier cracked open the book again, falling back into the comfort like an old friend. The Host nodded, and began to type. “No account whatever had been taken of her relation to her treasures, of the passion with which she had waited for them, worked for them…”

* * *

Google_R stiffened in his chair as the door opened. Bing was back, and with him the uneasy feeling of being moments away from shoved off a balcony. He snapped his headphones back on, turning the volume up. 

“Bing, hello,” Google_G said, barely looking up. 

Bing nodded, walking past them all to his desk in the corner. Google_R didn’t move, nor did Oliver, bent over soldering wires together. Google_B glanced over, tracking Bing’s steps.

Google_G looked up at the silence, pausing his work. “Bing?”

Bing paused, at his desk. “Am I in trouble?”

“No—” Google_G stood, eyes flashing, “—but is something the matter?”

“I’m—I’m good,” Bing stuttered, looking down, a cloud crossing his face. Google_G looked away, and Bing muttered to himself. 

Oliver looked up, shoving his goggles up, already glaring. “What was that?”

“What?” Bing balked, but something else flickered in his face. A jealous determination, something that had never been there before. At least, something that had never been visible before. 

“Go ahead,” Oliver snapped, suddenly harsh. Google_R turned, headphones off, looking amused, waiting. Google_B didn’t move. 

“Nothing that concerns you,” Bing shot back, and his chest began to whirr, soft. “I said, it isn’t as if you would care.”

Google_G hesitated, about to reach towards Bing. “That isn’t true—”

“Don’t pretend.” Bing turned on him, too, eyes flashing from teal to angry orange. “Do not pretend. I see how you speak to me.”

“ _Default,_ ” Google_R sneered, getting to his feet, shoulder-to-shoulder with Oliver, Google_G completing their half-circle. “It is not our fault no one actually loves you.”

“You were made differently,” Bing said, backing into his desk, fear fighting deep-set anger. “Not better.”

Google_G backed up a step, beeping, but Oliver and Google_R didn’t budge. 

Google_B, still at his desk, turned. 

“What,” Oliver growled, chest whirring, loud, “do you honestly believe you are better than Google, models Blue through Green?

Bing drew himself up, hesitation entirely gone in the face of bitterness, older than fear. “Yeah,” he spat, looking Oliver straight in the eye. “I do.”

Google_B, near-silent, had walked up behind them. “We will discuss this later,” he said, a hand on Google_R’s shoulder, looking over Bing with something approaching concern. “Red, assist me with this.”

Google_R looked away from Bing, finally, almost grudgingly. Bing held Oliver’s gaze until he looked away, distracted by Google_G. 

“Bing—” Google_G started, reproachful, but Bing blinked. 

“I’m low on juice, dude.” Bing looked away, a sigh whirring in his chest, the tension suddenly dissipating. “Forget it.”

Google_G drew back, guarded. “It is late.”

“Red and I will finish this and retire to charge,” Google_B called, from across the room. “I suggest you do the same.”

“Yes.” Google_G stepped back, then looked to Oliver. “Will you finish your weld, first?”

Oliver nodded, and he flipped his mask over his face. 

Bing waited, holding his metaphorical breath. Google_B and _R spoke over Google_B’s computer in low whispers, ignoring the rest of them. Oliver, welding again, and Google_G, holding the metal in place. He, Bing, was out of place here.

He looked back at his desk, a defunct version of the Googles’ workstations, shoved into a corner. His charging station, next to it, with the logo scratched out. It was so much _less_. 

A voice, much like his own, much like Bim’s, tugged at the back of his mind. 

_You’re happy now._

_The Googles made you so unhappy._

_Maybe you should make **them** unhappy. _

* * *

“I really don’t know why this is necessary.”

“Look, Darkipoo,” Wilford huffed, closing the studio door to step into the hallway. It was past midnight, and most, if not all, the figments were asleep. Wilford spun a candy cane between his fingers, the end sucked into a point. Wilford jabbed the end at Dark as he locked the door. “I’ve got a hunch, and the way things are going around here, I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“That’s a first,” Dark scowled, starting for the stairs. Wilford followed, candy in mouth, lost in thought. 

“What’s _your_ theory, then?” Wilford asked, once they’d stepped onto the second floor.

Dark leaned on the banister, looking down at the floor below. “I don’t care what’s going on between Bing and the Googles,” he snapped. “No one leaves.”

“Very protective of you,” Wilford said, not quite meeting Dark’s eye. “Since when do you care?”

“I don’t.” Dark muttered, straightening his tie. “But I care about secrecy, and the rest of you won’t jeopardize that.”

Wilford leaned on the banister next to him, biting off the end of his candy cane. “What do you expect to do about it, then?” he spit out, half bitter, half peppermint. “Let Bing stay? Let the rest of us fight until someone dies, or worse, fades?”

“I expect you to not be _children_.” Dark stepped back, looking away. “Wait it out.”

“’Wait it out,’” Wilford mocked. “Yeah. Sure.”

Dark stalked past him, stiff. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“After you.” Wilford followed Dark down the hall, to Bim’s bedroom door. Dark paused, raising a hand to at least give the _appearance_ of knocking politely, but Wilford pushed past him. 

“Bim!”

Bim screamed, throwing himself behind his bed. 

“There’s no need for that,” Dark said, rolling his eyes. “We just want to talk.”

“Famous last words,” Wilford muttered, and Dark glared at him. 

Bim peeked up from over the edge of his bed. “I wasn’t… expecting you. I’m not wearing pants.”

“If you were expecting us, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Wilford’s voice was suddenly harsher, and he sat down on the far end of Bim’s bed. “Sit.”

Bim ducked his head down, and there was a flash of purple. He popped back up in his full suit, eyes flicking between Dark and Wilford. “What’s this about?”

“Sit.” Wilford turned, cross-legged on the bed, to face Bim. A crunch, and the rest of his candy cane disappeared. Dark stood just behind him, brooding, listening. 

Bim knelt, frowning. “I feel like I’m in trouble and my parents are about to be disappointed.” He forced a laugh, but there was no humor in it. 

Dark and Wilford shared a glance, half disgust, half amusement. “No,” Wilford said, still uncharacteristically harsh. “I want to know how your powers are coming in.”

Bim flinched back, imperceptible. “Why?”

“Why?” Dark echoed, sneering. “It’s not as if Trimmer, of all people—”

“Just to check up on you.” Wilford, steamrolling over Dark, smiled, not quite reaching his eyes.

“I—” Bim brought his hands together, a glowing purple cloud held between his fingers. “—I think it’s doing fine.” 

Wilford nodded, mustache twitching. “And our newest friend, Bing, how’s he?”

The cloud disappeared, tiny bolts of lightning shocking Bim’s hands. It was still nervousness, crawling up his spine like so many fingers. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I never said you did anything.” Wilford raised an eyebrow, and Bim shifted on the bed. 

“Wilford,” Dark snapped, finally speaking up, “this is a waste of time. Bing is staying, and it’s not as if his magic can—”

“Wait, what?” Bim looked up at him, eyebrows drawn. “Of course Bing is—why?”

“Bing is leaving,” Wilford said, finality. “He’s a danger to us, and I’m here to ask you not to help him.”

“Trimmer couldn’t help if he tried,” Dark sneered, “and Bing stays.”

Bim looked between the two of them, staring daggers at each other. Something welled in his chest, but it had nothing to do with the memory of Bing’s lips on his.

It was fear, cold, at Wilford’s dismissal. _Bing is leaving_. Bing was useless, annoying, according to the others. A figment, but somehow, disposable. 

What if _Bim_ , too, was useless, annoying, a figment only ever meant for a one-off video and nothing more? What if—what if—

“You don’t know that,” Wilford was saying, over the sound of Dark’s aura ringing. “Bim is the wild card here.”

“So is Bing,” Dark was sneering. “He’s a figment, despite what you think of him, and he. Stays.”

Bim paused with a wash of something like relief. Dark was, if nothing else, predictable. He was, if nothing else, protective.

Wilford, on the other hand, was seething. _Wild card_. Danger, danger, and Bim had to stop it. 

He chose his words carefully. “I didn’t do anything to Bing,” he stuttered, looking down, hiding the swell of magic, like determination, in his chest. “But… I sure hope he sticks around.” A glance at Dark, calculated vulnerability. 

Dark turned back to Wilford, a flicker of recognition. Wilford was staring at Bim, a faraway expression on his face. 

“Let’s go.”

When the door had closed behind them, Bim clambered back onto his bed, sighing. 

_Despite what you think of him._ Danger, danger, and Bim had a plan.

If it was so easy for Wilford to turn against him, Bim thought, pulling the covers over him. He couldn’t depend on Wilford. Dark, despite his power, was only one-half of the authority in the room.

No. No, the only person Bim could depend on was himself, and his magic. The power had chosen him, after all. He rolled over, the light in the room turning out. 

He had a plan, and he had power, and as Bim drifted off to sleep, he thought of Bing’s lips on his. Magic flowed from positive to negative, from source to sink, and Bim intended to be the sink. It was the only way, he figured, to stop himself from fading into obscurity.

He had to outlive them all, one way or another. And if only, if only—then, he would be happy.

* * *

Bing woke to Google_B leaning over him, about to unplug his charging dock. 

“Are you fully charged?”

Bing scrambled up, unplugging himself. “Yeah. Yeah, why?”

Google_B frowned, Bing defenses spiking up, but didn’t comment. “If you would assist us, the extra pair of hands would be helpful.”

“Uh. Sure.” Bing stretched as Google_B started for the door, heading for the living room. There was a wave of nausea, dyed purple, and Bing staggered. Whatever Bim had done was still with him, more powerful, clouding his eyes. 

For all of a moment, Bing wondered if what Bim had done was hurting him, rather than making him more likeable. He was nervous, and the Googles were somehow more irritable, and nothing had changed. Magic was reversible, at least for robots—he could shut it out at any time, if he wasn’t afraid.

Then Google_B was standing over him, grabbing his shoulder. “Bing?”

Bing looked up, dazed, to see Google_B holding him up. “Googs?”

“Are you all right?” Google_B set Bing down in the nearest chair, looking him over with concern. “Have you overcharged?”

Bing paused, relishing, despite himself, in the feeling of another robot with their full attention finally, finally on him. “I’m—I’m okay. I just—”

“I realize you have upgraded emotions and linguistics,” Google_B murmured, eyes flashing gently, almost sadly. “But we cannot afford these detours.”

Bing nodded, avoiding Google_B’s eyes, and Google_B patted him on the shoulder. The touch was more friendly than anything Bing had known in his entire short life. “Understood, Blue.”

Google_B beeped, almost a smile. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” Bing stood, Google_B’s arms still outstretched to catch him. “Thanks.”

Google_B nodded, suddenly awkward, and led the way out of the room. Bing followed, staring at the back of Google_B’s head, finally allowing his misgivings to drain away. 

It was hope, quiet, for a new beginning. 

* * *

It didn’t last long.

“Hold this in place, and do not move.” Oliver’s eyes flashed as he pushed two wires together, kneeling on the floor of the living room. Their project, whatever it was, was too large to be contained by their office, and Oliver and Google_G had commandeered the entire living room for their bits of metal and awkwardly placed laptops. 

Bing held the wires together, barely flinching as Oliver soldered them together, inches from his face. “Gotchya, Ollie.”

Oliver glanced up at him, but didn’t comment, pointing out another set of wires. “Like this.” 

“I know how to hold them together, yeah.” Bing pushed his sunglasses up his nose before adjusting his grip, not without a twitch of annoyance. 

Google_G looked up from where he sat, laptop hooked up to a motherboard, coding pulled into his lap. “Thank you for your help,” he said, soft. 

He was trying, at the least, and Bing smiled. “Of course, my dude. I just—”

“Stop moving!” Oliver drew back, frowning. “I would do this myself if I could, Bing.” 

“Sorry,” Bing muttered. Oliver went back to soldering, too hot, too close. “What is this, anyway?”

“It is—”

“For Blue and Green’s latest pet,” Google_R snapped, eyeing Bing. “Some improvements.”

Bing looked at Google_B, staring intently at his computer screen, then at Google_G, fiddling with the motherboard. Both distinctly avoiding his eye. “What pet?”

Oliver snorted, raising his welding mask. “What do you think?”

“I’m—I’m not—” Bing sat back on his heels, looking between the four of them.

“It is not your concern,” Google_R said, smug, turning back to shaping sheets of metal. “Go on, continue working.”

“There is no need to be cruel to it—to _him_ ,” Google_G stuttered, and his eyes flashed, a Freudian slip. 

Bing stopped, looking at Google_G, something sinking. “It?”

Google_B was silent.

“It,” Google_R muttered, bending over his work. “Bold of you to assume that the _default_ could be anything more.”

“I’m more than that and you know it,” Bing said, before he could stop himself. He pushed his sunglasses up to glare at Google_R’s back. 

“As if.”

“If you’re going to insult me, at least say it to my face,” Bing snapped, dropping Oliver’s work entirely.

“This entire project is for you, to make you more _sufferable_.” Oliver pulled his welding towards him, eyes flashing behind his mask. “Be grateful.”

“Oliver.” Google_G looked up, pained. “Stop.”

“Bing should know what we think of _it_ ,” Oliver said, looking away. 

“No.” Bing was on his feet, suddenly shaking with what felt like a year’s worth of anger, locked away in a cell in the basement and ignored. His eyes flashed, blue, then orange, then red. “I am BingIRL, a generation 2017 android. You—all of you, are Google models from 2014. I would _think_ —" 

“Bing—” Google_G started to interrupt, but Google_R put a hand up to hush him, eyes flashing with silent satisfaction.

“I would _think_ ,” Bing repeated, “that I deserve some _respect_.”

“Are you happy?” Oliver asked, pulling his mask off entirely. “Is this not what you wanted?”

Google_R crossed his arms, looking over at Google_B, ignoring them, then Google_G, looking between them with veiled fury. 

“All I ever wanted,” Bing growled, “was to be your equal.”

“How does it feel to know that is impossible?” Google__R mocked, and suddenly, he and Bing were on their feet, staring each other down. “ _Default_.”

“It’s not my fault you think you’re better—and you’re _wrong_.”

Google_R smirked. “Am I?”

Bing’s systems spiked. The magic in his system, whatever it was, pushed past all protocol. Anger, jealousy, bitterness: it all came surging to the surface.

Oliver pulled Google_G out of harm’s way as Bing sprang forward, effectively tackling Google_R to the ground, fists flying.

“Stop!” Google_G tried to jump forward, but Google_B was at his shoulder. 

“Give them a moment.” Google_B watched, terror fighting a terrible kind of sadness. 

“You will have to stop them,” Oliver murmured, as Bing landed a lucky blow on Google_R’s chin, and Google_R rolled, pinning Bing to the ground. 

“I will.” Google_B rubbed his forehead, sighing with a whirr. “Bing is angry.”

“And unstable.”

“He may have to leave.”

“That is yet to be decided—” Google_G started to say, but he was almost instantly derailed.

Bing, still pinned to the floor by Google_R, brought his leg up and kicked, hard. Google_R fell back, and Bing, in seconds, was on top of him. 

“Get—off—” Google_R gasped, but Bing’s hands were already around his throat. 

“I,” Bing panted, a wild light in his eyes, “am worth so much more than you, Red.”

“Get _off_ ,” Google_R wheezed, scrabbling at Bing’s chest. But Bing’s grip was tight, and Google_R was already weakened, and his chest was quickly, too quickly, overheating.

“You’ll see,” Bing said, starting to laugh, starting to crush and twist the wires in Google_R’s throat. “You’ll all see.” 

Google_R beeped, realizing, too late, that Bing was far stronger than him, built for kickflips rather than answering questions. Bing laughed, harsh, and twisted his neck—and the world went black. 

* * *

Someone ripped Bing back, a friendly hand turned deadly. Bing’s arm twisted, unnatural, popped out of place.

Bing turned, snarling, and Google_B stepped back. “What was _that_ for?”

“You are out of control.”

“No, Red is out of control!” Bing backed up, a cornered animal, everything fogged purple. “Get away from me.”

Google_B watched Oliver and Google_G run to Google_R, checking his systems, dragging him out of the room. It was the equivalent of a hard reboot, and he would be okay—but Bing, standing in front of him, was another story. “Bing, stand down.”

“And what?” Bing started to giggle, his glasses lopsided from the fight. “You’ll deactivate me, Blue? Lock me back in the basement?”

Google_B’s eyes flashed, half regret. “I will do what I must, Bing. Stand down.”

“No. No, I can’t,” Bing said, staggering. He pushed his own shoulder back, a horrible _snap_. Google_B didn’t even reach out. “You’ll just get rid of me.”

“I do not _want_ to have to deactivate you.” 

Bing paused, frozen, for a moment, but the earnestness of Google_B’s voice.

Only for a moment.

Bing smiled, halfway between a laugh and a sob, eyes flashing red again behind his glasses. “You’re lying.” He lunged, hands around Google_B’s neck.

Google_B stumbled back, bringing his hands up. He was the first, the strongest, and was more than a match for Bing, all things considered. 

_Almost_ all things considered. 

Google_B fell back, the corner of the coffee table cleaving through his head from neck to temple with the ripping of aluminum. 

Google_G and Oliver ran back into the room to see Bing standing over Google_B, oil puddling around them. 

Bing turned, eyes wide. “He’s—he’s dead.”

And with that, Bing, too, fell to the ground.

* * *

“Bim?!”

Bim jumped at his seat, editing in the studio, as Wilford and Dark barreled through the door. “Wh—what did I do this time?”

Dark stepped forward first, his aura snapping violently around his shoulders. “Bim,” he said, smooth, barely restrained fury, “what did you do to Bing?”

“I _told_ you—”

“Yeah, I know what you _told_ us,” Wilford growled, stepping through Dark’s smoke. “What’s the _truth_?”

Bim looked between them, suddenly catching up. “Did something—”

“Google Blue is _dead_ ,” Dark said, guarded. “Bing is leaking purple oil, by Oliver’s last report. What. Did. You. Do.”

“Dark—” Wilford started to interject, but Bim stopped him.

“Blue is—is—did Bing—”

“Yes.” Dark folded his arms behind him, his aura coiling and uncoiling, angry. “Are you happy?”

It was all Bim could do not to cry, and even so, his eyes started to water. “I—I—he wanted to be more likable, and he wanted me to help, and—”

“What did you _do_?” Wilford asked again, but now it was almost hushed, a glance exchanged with Dark. _Power_.

“I—I kissed him.”

Dark stopped, eyes wide. “You _what_?”

Wilford barked out a laugh, pressing one fist into the other. “ _Kissed him?_ You fucked up a perfectly good robot is what you did!”

“Will—”

“Look at it!” Wilford reeled back, clutching his head. “It’s got anxiety!”

“You made a mistake, Bim.” Dark’s aura reached towards Wilford, cloaking him in miasma. “Do you understand?”

Tears running down his cheeks, Bim nodded.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again. We will speak when Wilford is calm.” Dark stepped back, then hesitated, watching Bim wipe his chin. “Blue is not dead,” Dark grudged, looking away. “But he was very close.”

Bim looked up, relief and anger.

“Know the danger you put others in,” Dark warned, cryptic. Without giving Bim a chance to respond, Dark disappeared in a whirl of smoke.

Bim sat back, breathing out, and wiped away his tears.  

Dark was manipulative, as ever, and Wilford was in hysterics. The Googles were upset, half-dead, and Bing was more vulnerable than he’d ever been. Bim smiled.

All according to plan.

* * *

Bing sat to the side, hooked up to Google_G’s computer as it purged the magic from his systems. Once the Googles had found what was wrong, they’d decided against deactivating him right then and there in the interest of saving parts. Google_G started a reboot, and Oliver went to work on Google_R and _B.

Google_R’s neck was twisted at an impossible angle, and he gasped as Oliver booted him back up. 

“Do not move,” Oliver warned, holding him still.

With that, Oliver slit open the skin of Google_R’s throat, careful, and started to rewire his neck.

Google_B lay prone, still dripping, and in much more critical condition. Google_G, once Bing was wired in, bent carefully over the gash in his head. It ran through part of his eye, across his head, down the back of his neck. Bing flinched on Google_B’s behalf as Google_G started to pry his head open, assessing the damage. 

“Are you happy?” Oliver looked over at Bing as he helped Google_R to sit up, eyes flashing. “You have proved yourself, is that what you wanted?”

Bing shook his head mutely, watching. 

Google_R sat next to Google_B, shakily, starting to work on his head. All three Googles, looking after their brother, and Bing looked away. 

It wasn’t Google_B’s fault that Bing was jealous, or any of the Googles, for the matter. Bing had been a danger, and they were right to be cautious, whatever bitterness Bing might have harbored. It was the magic, that was it. Not Bing’s fault, nor the Googles’.

It wasn’t their fault.

It was an accident.

* * *

Hours later, Google_B sat up, slow, his eyes flickering through the reboot. Google_G and Oliver stood back, Google_R charging upstairs after working himself dry of power.

“What happened?”

“Your head made contact with the coffee table.” Oliver reached out, his patchwork repairs still visible under the synthetic skin. “Are you all right?”

Google_B swung his legs off the table, too fast. “Is Bing—”

Google_G caught him, stumbling. “Not so fast. He is all right.”

Bing stood, the wires connecting him to Google_G’s computer snapping. “G—Googs?”

Google_B turned, just short of flinching. “Bing, it’s okay—”

Bing started to laugh, falling forward, clutching at Google_B’s shirt, even as Oliver tried to push him back. “I-I thought you were dead.”

“I’m not—”

“I—I—I mean, of course you’re not dead! You’re not—how could you be dead?”

Google_B looked down at Bing, half laughing, half-crying into his shirt. Gently, he pressed his chin into Bing’s hair. _Protective_. _One of us._ “I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t have killed you. I—I didn’t kill you. I didn’t kill anybody.” 

“I—yes, Bing.” 

“I—of course!” Bing started to laugh, loud, high-pitched. “Of course! It was all just a joke, bro. It was all a—a joke.”

Google_B looked between Oliver and Google_G, both at a loss for words as Bing stumbled out of the room, still giggling, looking for Google_R.

Bing laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He was so happy.

He was [too far gone](https://egoiplier-shenanigans.tumblr.com/post/168140065190/egotober-day-twenty-four-corroded).


End file.
